


Sacramento

by coolbyrne



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29309499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbyrne/pseuds/coolbyrne
Summary: Gibbs comes back from the war, but doesn't find 'home' until he finds her. Slibbs
Relationships: Jethro Gibbs/Jacqueline "Jack" Sloane
Comments: 15
Kudos: 74





	Sacramento

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't read 'Snapshot', you're not going to understand this at all!

When his feet touched American soil for the first time in 5 years, he felt like more of a stranger than he had in the foreign land he'd just left. Unlike so many of his compatriots returning from the war, he wasn't coming home, wasn't coming back to family. He was chosen for his intel missions for that very reason- he had no connections, no one to blackmail or threaten, his wife and daughter taken from him not by war by but a random patch of ice on a dark winding road on the way to a home he gave up when he joined the Marines. He inhaled the new air. Five years had been a lifetime, and he found he struggled to feel a connection to a place- a country- he didn't recognize. The last year had been particularly hard, despite the relief of the war ending. While his sole purpose was to help in that end, he now felt lost, uncertain for the first time in years. Uncertain of his aim, of his place, of his future. The Foreign Office had extended an open invitation for employment in London. He pulled up the collar of his wool coat; maybe that's what he'd do. 

_So why'd ya come back?_

The question wafted to him in the New York air, and adjusting the strap on his deployment bag, he sharply whistled for a taxi to take him into the city.

…..

"Sorry about the delay, folks," the train conductor said. "Just a little debris on the track we need to clear off, then we'll get going again."

Out here, Gibbs had no doubt the 'little debris' was a cow that had ambled onto the tracks and made itself comfortable. Despite the extra hour it would put on an already 72 hour trip, he kept his frustrations to a minimum. Had he wanted a quicker route, he would've taken a plane, but he'd wanted some time to get his thoughts in order, even as he had asked the taxi in New York to take him directly to the train station.

_You want the time to try an' talk yourself out of it, you mean._

He forced his attention to the scenery outside the window, forced his brain not to bring up all his self-doubts again.

It had been over a year since he'd last seen her, the cool Paris air against his cheek still vivid in his memory. She had said her good-byes on the dark street, leaving him alone, but also leaving him her name and hometown.

_Jacqueline Sloane, Sacramento._

He gave her a promise he'd use it to track her down, a promise that lit up her eyes even as she disappeared into the night. But it was easier then, when they were both still living under borrowed time and stolen moments. The fear of getting caught by the German forces heightened every minute they spent together, magnifying every emotion. They lived under an agreed upon lie- that they were strangers who happened to cross paths every so often in the streets of German-occupied Paris. Now they were just Jacqueline Sloane from Sacramento and Leroy Jethro Gibbs from Stillwater, and that cold glass of reality nearly made him turn back in Iowa, but the last image of her kept him going, as it had the remaining 13 months of the war. Not a day had gone by that he hadn't thought of her, hadn't looked for her face in a crowd even when he knew she wasn't there. But she _was_ always there, in some way; he would always associate Paris with her smile, her smell, her charm. Maybe that's why New York felt so alien to him- he had never felt farther away from her than he did stepping off that plane. And maybe that was why he didn't turn back in Iowa- the train was bringing her closer, no matter what he found at the end of the line.

They hadn't communicated, of course. The nature of their business didn't allow personal ties, and beyond discreetly getting her address from an Intel buddy who owed him a favour or two, he knew nothing of her life after that night. He suspected she had no family when the war began- like him, it would've been a big reason why she was chosen in the first place. But after that night, after she had returned home, after 13 months? She was just as much a mystery now as she was then. 

The train jerked into motion, jostling him from his thoughts.

…..

He'd been to California once, in his early Marine days but hadn't taken much notice of it. Stepping off the train offered no special welcome and the taxis seemed the same as New York, even if the drivers were a little less colourful with their language. But when the driver took him along the scenic route and encouraged him to roll down the window, Gibbs was warmed by the California air, and he could've sworn he smelled the ocean even though it was hours away from the inland city. He could see why she stayed.

"Your stop."

The taxi pulled up to the curb outside a small 2-storey house, complete with a front porch and wooden fence that had seen better days. The house was white and yellow and instantly reminded him of her. Despite suspecting the driver had gone the longest way possible, he leaned forward with the draw and a generous tip, then stepped out of the car. The gate squeaked on its hinges, and if she _had_ met someone, he was going to be quick to judge. The wooden porch steps invited him to the door, and suddenly, he wished he hadn't left his bag at the motel, the duffle at least giving his hands something to do. Self-consciously, he took off his fedora and ran his fingers through a military cut that didn't need fixing. His knock was confident even if he wasn't so sure he was the same.

As it turned out, it was all for naught. No one came to the door. He waited for the curtains in the picture window to move, revealing a tentative peek at the stranger on the doorstep. But it never came. The house was quiet and still. 

He was a man who lived in black and white, so when he showed up at her door, he had only considered 2 outcomes, and that either way, 1 would be decided when she opened the door. Faced with an unexpected 3rd option, he turned to look back to the street, as if he'd find an answer there. Finding none, he tapped his fedora against his leg, sat on the porch steps and decided to wait. 

…..

The sun had finally begun to shift away from the house, leaving long shadows across the small patch of lawn when he saw her. She seemed in no hurry, walking down the sidewalk in a dress the same colour as the house, a brown paper bag tucked in the crook of her elbow. She wore no hat, allowing the sun to highlight the blonde streaks, allowing herself the opportunity to turn her face into its warmth. He willed himself to stay sitting, bribed himself by using his patience to look at her even as his heart hammered against his chest. Without a hat, she couldn't see the visitor on her steps, and he watched her walk slow and her hand come up to shield her eyes. She didn't stop entirely, though, and he inwardly smiled at the independence he recognized immediately. Her steps were measured, revealing nothing, and all he wanted to do was stand up and shout, "It's me."

He didn't have to. It was clear that by the time she reached her gate, his identity was revealed. When her hand shook in its way to cover her mouth, he stood and held out his arms almost sheepishly. A shock seemed to come over her, because she opened the gate and put the bag down with exaggerated slowness, then closed the gate behind her.

He knew instantly that his world was changing for the better, because only one other woman in his life had ever smiled at him the way Jack did in that moment. Their kiss, between the gate and the porch, was half desperation, half promise, her hands gripping his coat tightly, his curling around her reverently. Her mouth was warm and soft, full of as much demand as want. He was more than willing to oblige even if he could barely believe he was being given the chance. 

She peppered eager kisses along his jaw and whispered, "I thought I'd lost you in Italy."

Hearing the country slowed his kisses down to a light dusting around the shell of her ear. "Italy? You were tracking me."

It wasn't a question but she answered it anyway. "Of course I was tracking you. Just because I left Paris doesn't mean I didn't still have my contacts." She pulled back just far enough to frame his face with her hands and sigh against his lips. "The trail went cold in Milan and I-"

He captured the anxious memory with a kiss, drawing the fear from her lips and replacing it with assurance. "Had something I needed to take care of," he said, knowing he didn't need to elaborate. "Took almost 8 months to finish the job. By then, it was just a matter of waitin' out the war."

Curling her fingers around his lapels, she shook her head. "Doesn't matter. You're here now." She shook her head again, as if she couldn't believe what she had just said. She kissed him again, then suggested, "Let's get inside before the neighbours talk." She said the words but didn't make an effort to move, and he was in no hurry to let her go. "I'll make you dinner," she tried to bribe. "I've only got enough in the bag for one, but we'll make do."

Considering the way she greeted him and the way she held him now, he had no cause for concern, but her words tweaked his ear anyway. "Only one?"

Her eyes went soft at the question, and he knew she saw it for what it was. "There's only ever been one, since the first day I met you in that coffee shop on Boulevard Saint-Germain." Her honesty made his eyes brighten and his grin wider. "Cocky bastard," she said, slapping his chest, but her accusation landed softly against his lips, and she gave up the annoyed pretense. "Welcome home, soldier."

"Vive la Résistance," he whispered, and kissed her again.

…..

-end


End file.
